Between the Lines

I've kissed the wife good night and watched her climb the stairs. I have a small glass of absinthe with three ice cubes, and as such spirits do, it has clouded with the cold and the melt. I haven't been up this late or had alcohol at this hour in a week or more. It is my birthday.

It is also the anniversary of my grandmother's death, something my mother marks better than I. Today I remember it because earlier I had occasion to think of my grandfather. He was a tea-totaler. Now always. He had a glass of champagne at my aunt's wedding in 1967. Before that, 1938 or so. A man got on his bad side. That's the story, anyway, and as one might imagine, I only heard it once, so the facts are sketchy, and the retelling might be stumbling, not unlike a long flight of stairs after a powerful fist in the face.

(This stuff is made from wormwood yet? Artemesia? I imagine green gossamer, or catching a lacewing only to make a wish upon its release. A slightly indiscreet fantasy, but I must admit, the taste, although something like anise, has a strange, astringent aftertaste. an infidelity that cannot be undone.)

My grandfather. I bucked bales for him at twelve years but it was a mere eleven acres and two-wire straw. His father died when my grandfather was only eleven. He graduated 8th grade and went to the coal mines at fourteen; he helped build the railroad, a tie on each shoulder at a time, to that mine; and, as a challenge of strength at sixty-five, threw this seventeen year old like a wet rag from one end of the kitchen to the other. I know men like that today. I am not one of them.

He put an ax in his shin at seventy-two, and all of that history became all that he was for his last eight years.  I could say more but I instead encourage you to only contemplate the scar.

That is the German side of the family. The other half, absent of much of a history, is French. The incursion in reverse. As my gift to you, make of it as you are prone.

No, I thought about my grandfather in response to these times we live in, times I am grateful for his death. He loved this country. He read three newspapers a day and editorialized from his Lazy Boy. His heroes were John Lewis, FDR and Will Rogers. Those names carry little weight today. It is not that he would not recognize the world now, but it may have turned him again to drink.

I have finished my cocktail. A few slivers of ice remain. I remain unaltered, save a sluggishness in word choice. No hallucinations, save persistent delusions no doubt more readily identifiable to others. Perhaps I have divulged more than is customary, though degree has never been a issue, now, has it? I will leave you, then, with this incomplete thought: Two Flags Not Dissimilar.

Soft Spot

I'm uncertain whether it is proper to mention episodes of online poker in that I no longer play for money. Events that occur in the play money rooms seem to not merit the time spent writing or reading about them in that the game and players are often sub-par. Likewise, the big hands: straight flushes, four-of-a-kinds, etc., seem empty of real satisfaction, even when one gets paid. Yet, sometimes other things happen in the game that seems to spur a tale.

I have been playing a lot of six-handed O-8 ("a lot" being 50-100 hands a day). I sat at a table yesterday that seemed even-keeled, meaning that there wasn't a jackass raising up every hand preflop regardless of position, and the players seemed competent, including the player to my right. Until, after everyone folded, she (her name was Kathy) flashed a made Broadway on the big, rainbow flop.

"I don't think we doubt your credibility." I typed after the hand.

"?"

"Your flash."

"I always do that."

"OK." Who am I to discourage (when I already did)?

The game continued. I cannot remember how I was doing, except to say, as I have in the past, these games are extremely soft, and I rarely leave down (Big deal!).

I was the BB with suited Kings, checked, and saw a flop with two more to match, plus a Ten. The SB, Kathy, checked, as did I, and as did the other four players. The turn was a Queen, and Kathy bet, I raised, and everyone else folded to Kathy, who then re-raised. Well, you know the rest.

"Creep."

"I was waiting."

Now, my dear, mere handful of readers, you know that I played this well. And you also know that I do not wish to endure ill will, even in a virtual environment, so you will also understand that with all of these factors combined, it was nothing for me to donk off a bit of my winnings to her the very next hand.

"Better?" I asked.

"At least I bet my hand."

As did I. As did I.

Drama

I really should be doing something else. A lot of else.
I remind myself that two cups of coffee are daunting.

Two left feet, walking around on bloody ankles,
a rug would give me traction, if not pulled out.

I am not alone in self-sabotage, no doubt a trait universal to humans, at least to some degree. Truth is, a lot of good is coming my way and the alter-ego feels left behind. He does not want to belabor the major exhibition in the spring, or the early interest it has generated. He defers to caution.  He wants to hide. Fear is always easier.

It may be the coffee. It may be that the sun tells me I should be outside.

Here's the deal: the website needs to be redone. It has been long in coming and if you were to see my files, you would understand the sifting required in the mound. And, somewhere on this messy desk are notes to make the task easier.

Easier. I am readily distracted by formal considerations, even though I choose which ones are crucial. Believe it or not.

Excavated Mound

I have been working toward this my whole life, and with that comes a history. I suppose jitters are allowed.

Nice day for putzing around the yard

Thumpity thumpity thumpity oops!

No idea what caused it. No specific idea, as universal a lifestyle may seem at times. I do that a lot, back off with a qualification, not just for a signature stylistic (referring back to the overall theme) like an alarm clock set for bed instead of floor, socks, sweats, shirt, phone, glasses, downstairs, good-morning, a careful closed-mouth kiss, coffee and whatever is otherwise required. No, set for the late hour, something like the tides only in reverse, and I reluctantly acknowledge I have had enough of the implausible.

The thing is, there's a small typographical conundrum in which I have touched the dot one too many times and it straggles, pushing me forward in the way that a paradox often does, against my better judgement, for tomorrow comes quick, nay, has arrived, and now it is the particulars that propel me to another line.

I swear, I had intended to stop. Accustomed is what it is, a matter of habit, or several, that find me debilitated yet... and then it comes, the blank stare.

.

Too late to return to the initial impetus, in fact, no longer an issue, or so it seems, so now a decision must be made.

I'll go to sleep.



No idea what caused it. No specific idea,
as universal a lifestyle may seem
at times. I do that a lot,
back off with a qualification, not
just for a signature stylistic
(referring back to the overall theme) like
an alarm clock set for bed instead
of floor, socks, sweats, shirt, phone, glasses,
downstairs, good-morning, a careful closed-mouth kiss,
coffee and whatever is otherwise required.

No, set for the late hour, something like the tides only in reverse,
and I reluctantly acknowledge I have had enough of the implausible.

The thing is, there's a small typographical conundrum in which I have touched the dot
one too many times and it straggles, pushing me forward in the way that a paradox often does,
against my better judgement, for tomorrow comes quick,
nay, has arrived,
and now it is the particulars that propel me to another line.
I swear, I had intended to stop. Accustomed is what it is, a matter of habit,
or several, that find me debilitated yet... and then it comes, the blank stare.

.

Too late to return to the initial impetus,
in fact, no longer an issue, or so it seems, so now a decision must be made.

I'll go to sleep.

Test

We had our first frost last night, evidence still on the ground at 0900h in the bright sunshine and heavy dew. Similarly, my wife is returning today from five days in Southern California.

She has been visiting her parents, helping both in her father's recovery after surgery two weeks ago yesterday. I was supposed to leave today to pick up where she left off, but it seems they have had enough of company for a while and want their time alone with their familiar dynamic. I know the feeling.

That was Tuesday. As of tomorrow I'll be on my own again for three more days. The cat and dog will be here. She's off with a friend who is visiting, leaving me to my devices and duties.

I have a gopher trap that I have not checked in several days. There are three more working their way through the close paddocks and around the barns. I must get to them.

I have brush to burn and compost to turn.

I bet the winter squash are ripe and greens ready to be picked.

I may get around to cleaning my studio.

And then she'll be home again.

I bet I'm forgetting something.

Searching for Context

My initial reaction was a slight disgust mixed with disorientation, although to be exacting, I suppose simultaneity is unlikely and it is out of convenience the memory becomes compressed. Yet, I do know that the first truck was chock full of Christmas trees, which was immediately followed by another to-the-gills with ears of corn headed for the cannery. My head was dancing from the seasonal incongruity of elsewhere as a habit of mind.

It is not so much two directions at this point, but more a choice of themes, the easier a matter of temporality. The more difficult will have to wait, and with a little luck be prompted as we progress through the former's telling.

For there was a tell, her feigned surprise not it; instead, my too quick recognition of the voice a millisecond before my eyes could match it up. Yes, I had already seen her and decided it best to avoid any sort of conversation in the grocery line. Fifteen items or less would not be express enough. Now, whether she knew that I knew, she might have the advantage, for poker players are no match for boozers when it comes to sizing up responses. I did brief-and-pleasant and still found a way to gently spurn. "Just too busy. I'm sure you understand." is a recently discovered tactic, and close kin to the academe's "You surely must be aware of A's work on Z." All most likely not lost on her.

Oh, I suppose we could have conversed in code:

 — How's Joe?

— The same.

— Shame. The same for you as well?

The outcome would have been the same and the check out clerk would not have been any wiser save for vanishing smiles. Or, it could have gone like this:

— How are Joe's tremors?

— Gone.

The smiles would remain but then I would have to listen the following Friday when the garbage truck comes by in order to verify. And what if it were as she said?  Even if I heard the clink of bottles, what would that prove? How does one blot out the blotto (I could not resist and should be ashamed that I am not above such) of the past?

And there we have it. If I remember correctly, back home the sweet corn was gone by August.

Recurrance

Awake from more of a long nap than a night's sleep, and not that restful, on the couch, over-dressed as I am and with the heat too high, remnants of the dream come with me as I fix a glass of ice water.

I had been in the apartment before, alone with her; yet, this time two younger men accompanied us. They were art critics from New York. I knew where the glasses were kept and went to get one, for the pizza had made me very thirsty. I wondered if I was being too presumptuous helping myself as the other two wandered about and made comments about art on her walls and books on her shelves  It was all too smug, easy, their flow about the place, and therefore subtleties were no doubt missed, like the transparent glass, the simple gesture of pulling it from the cabinet with its smooth rim tilted toward my face, of course interrupted as one of the boys had found half of a stale baguette and cradled it from the living room to the kitchen.

I have no interest in taking liberties, nor pursuing any hint, now at an age when dreams replace youthful impulse, intimacy as sharing such a station. And just now it occurs to me that this is what she was trying to tell me the last time we met, as uneasy as it was for me at the time to watch the pain cross her face. Why, I wondered, did she feel the need to tell me of past indiscretions? Was it a lead on? I had my share as well, and admitted such, and her faced smoothed. Perhaps that is all we both needed to know, that none of it ever brought joy, and therefore this new friendship would be safe.

I have downed four full glasses since I began this writing. No doubt, too much sodium in the pizza. I check my ring finger for verification, can see the pressure mark and barely slide my band up and down. Having recalled the dream, it will not return, yet the symbolic persists.

Details

I don't suppose you want to know about my truck breaking down northbound at Mile Marker 267, but it did. The temperature gauge showed no issue, nor the oil gauge, yet the rhythmic tick as I accelerated told me that prudence would be to pull over and make the necessary phone calls.

The fluid I saw in parking lots over the last week under my truck was mine after all. It would have been very easy to verify. Somewhere in the back of my mind I must have believed that the third radiator installed in as many years surely couldn't be faulty. And that temperature gauge, had it been acting weird ever since the last radiator exploded? Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

All very calmly assessed during and after. Even the dread of no longer having a truck, me looking at myself in anguish. Dread is dread, no?

The starlings in the trees alongside the freeway kept me company. So did the garbage, always amazed at the accumulations of both. Plus the volume of traffic. I had my hazard lights on, and cautiously stayed outside the vehicle, but not so far away that I couldn't quickly reach inside the passenger door for my coffee in the cup holder. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick One of those state emergency trucks pulled up behind me and I walked over to his passenger window.

"I have a tow coming."

"OK. I have a 1990. Good little truck with 250K on it."

"This one," I said, pointing at my truck," had 250 on it too before it got a new motor. 30K on the rebuilt, so I'm hoping I just didn't kill the damn thing."

"Well, good luck."

The tow arrived fifteen minutes earlier than when they said it would. Still, I had to piss twice, cozied up against the open door while aiming for inside the corner made by it and the floorboard. And agin, I grabbed for the coffee.

"I got a '92. Had an extra motor that just needed a valve cover until a couple weeks ago. Sold it for $200. Too bad."

My wife picked me up from our mechanic's.

"You didn't hear that funny noise yesterday?"

"The ball joints in old Toyotas always make that noise on a tight turn."

"Not that noise."

Guess not, too in love with the new stereo, now that both channels work.

Polywog Math

Alternating between overcast and its full potential, rain comes fast from the southeast. Still, it is warm enough to go without the wood stove and to keep the buzzards aloft on said wind. They circle their last, en masse, and file off in twos over my head. I feel fortunate to have witnessed the procession, out walking the dog, feeding charcoal to the smoker and saying goodbye to my wife as she leaves on errands.

*

Good news. The ritual piece I started some years back is to be seen in its entirety next spring. The word 'entirety' is misleading, as I had intended it be finished some months ago; yet, Nature had other plans and cajoled me to nurture the emergence of new green, which, in turn, gave fruit and, likewise, seed. I now foresee no end to this process, although the task may be given/transferred to others. ...shown in its potential...

Still, I am cautious. Sadly, these days six months is a long time in the art world, so I shall concentrate on what will be sent to that same venue this month. Said the dealer: "Crazy beautiful. I see sales, so send three prints, signed and numbered out of five." You've seen it, the carcass on a fence. Therein lies a rub in that we have lost three of the same mammal this year. Feral or not, there is trepidation for when I break the news over dinner.

Smoked trout, asparagus in butter and garlic, and the last of our heirloom tomatoes for the season.  The asparagus? Of course from California somewhere, somehow. I cooked. We ate. I both broached and answered ambiguously until how many prints would be needed. As the song says, accentuate the positive. Sins of omission a prophylactic salve.

*

Have you noticed? No, not so much here, but elsewhere. I am thinking of performance. Readings. Dare I write it? A book. Tonight, the tree frogs' sweet chirps said, "Find thee an editor."

Half Life

An old book with a post-it marking where I left off, page thirty-seven, some eighteen and a half years ago. I'm guessing. The notations and underlines are from the previous owner, this book a gift, and I have no recollection of the text itself, except for the note in ink on the small piece of yellow paper. I recognize the handwriting. I know the name mentioned. I may or may not have read any of the book. Other things I'll never forget.

Don't worry. I have no plans to burn my library. Besides, I pulled the book for a reason: Maybe this time I will read it in entirety. I want to. After all, that is the reason. For the action, anyway. And should I read it, I will hurry toward my purpose lest I forget what it is I want to understand from it. Learn, understand, apply. So simple a method.

What book? A matter? Were I to write my own, some things would hold true, as in constant, along with the paradox contained,  always a portion that slips away, unrecognizable except perhaps for style. A partial print, if you will, or a poem written for an anniversary.

An oddity: As soon as I walk into a library I have to take a shit. Granted, decaying paper may have something to do with it. Yet, the associative mind and the limbic brain coexist, so credit must be given to that initial impulse in prey or hunter to lighten the load, my satchel no match for the shelves contained within. And with that I leave my mark. See if I haven't.

So there the book sits, it's cover carries a photo of the author, much younger than now, somewhat attractive, perhaps Sephardic and therefore most likely the brunette she is, lips parted just enough to show a bit of her slight overbite, her eyes intent on something to our right and behind us. There is wind enough to pull a wisp from behind her right ear. Her right hand resting on that side of her jaw tells us she is speaking with someone. Her dress is a simple print, and the ring on that finger is large and oblong, but not ostentatious. It occurs to me that the pose references the first word in the title: Desire. The remainder of words take another direction. We are to engage our minds.

The book is a collection of essays. There is an editor. Still very much alive, perhaps she was too busy or it was a favor.

"How are classes going?"

"Well, thank you."

"Has there been talk of tenure?"

I mean no ill will. Fondness exists for its proof.

All of this may be an avoidance. I have a thing for brunettes, and it often has not been in the best interest of either.

Last fishing trips

The kindly older gentleman asked, "When was the last time you took a full day to do something besides the things that hang over your head?" I shrugged. The "full day" aspect snagged.

"I am going fishing on Thursday."

"Well, good. See if you can get through the day without thinking of your to-do list. And if it does come up, then try to get back to your fishing. Gently."

Fishing is not always a s relaxing as it should be. Over the years I have told tales of fishing woes more than successes. Still, I persist in what seems the off chance that a good catch will offset the snags,  tangled lines, broken rods and tumbles on loose rock.

Of course, making the trip with a good buddy is a plus, and so it was yesterday, joking, catching up on what's new and enjoying the quiet that rests between us as we listen to the rapids and birds in the trees.

We spent the first part of the day on the river that has produced some nice salmon in past years. We were too early in the season, so it seemed, for the numbers were not there, although the fishermen were. It was clear that we might be better off going to our other spot on the smaller river, so we packed up and headed for the "Honey Hole."

The road that runs alongside this little river has seen some construction over the last couple years, and although the road is much-improved, the turn-out for our spot was reduced to a cliff-hanger of a shoulder, and rather than take a chance that it might give way under the car's weight, we now opt to park fifty yards further up. Parked and at the top of the culvert that leads down to our hole, my buddy remembered that he had left his walking stick back at the car and went to retrieve it. I had my stick, and anxious to get my line wet, proceeded down the 60° incline, first in the mud until I noticed what appeared to be a large flat rock that led down to other rocks that could act as steps, so I moved in that direction.

I have tried to recall whether I first stepped upon the big flat rock with my right or left. I cannot. Regardless, the foot did not stay and I began an hurried and erratic descent. I do know that I started on my tailbone and ended on my hands and knees. More a fetal position, and there I stayed.

The body doesn't always register pain immediately after trauma, especially in the case of severe injury, nerves having to establish new pathways, I suppose. I waited for those transmissions. My lower back hurt right away, like strained muscles, but I was more concerned about bones. I saw that somehow I had torn away parts of both thumbnails, but still no pain from those sites. Then I felt a burn on the outer aspect of my left thigh. I took no blood coming through my sweats as a good sign, and slowly stood up.

"What happened?" My buddy was standing up top.

I had my camera and cell phone in the left pocket of my sweats. I checked and both seemed undamaged.


My fishing rod was still intact. The glass jar of brined shrimp in my fishing vest had not broken either. My right thumb seemed to have taken the worse of it, but the blood was minimal. My thigh was a bit swollen and I had a six-by-two-inch raspberry to show for my efforts.

We went home without fish.


For some reason I am reminded of fishing trips I went on while in the Navy. I was stationed in Virginia and there were a number of good largemouth bass spots in the area but I was without a boat.  Through a roommate, I met an older gentleman who had a boat and vehicle to tow it, but had no driver's license as he was a drunk. But he loved to fish, and I wanted to fish, so I drove.


We were on a favorite little lake casting plastic worms against the shore when I got one helluva strike. I could tell it was a big fish but I failed to set the hook. As I retrieved my line in preparation for another try, the old guy reeled his line in faster and cast at the spot where I had the strike and pulled in a six-pound bass. Had I been successful if allowed a second try, it would have been the biggest fish I ever caught. I was peeved, but said nothing.


This guy lived with his wife and daughter. I rarely saw the wife but the daughter always seemed to be around when we were loading up or coming back. She didn't talk much but I got the impression she ran with a little tougher crowd than I. As Dad transferred the big bass to a galvanized tub of water, she came out to the garage with a cast on her right calf. She had broken her ankle as the passenger on a dumped motorcycle. Poor thing. I thought perhaps a night out on the town might be in order for the injured girl. We went to a movie, bought a six-pack of beer, went back to my apartment and propped that cold plaster on the small of my back.

Just another day and season

The crows gathered, pissed off by something on the other side of the road, behind the stand of firs. I had to think for a minute: Yes, a 'murder' and then write on my hand, "crows" so I would remember to look up the etiology.

No go, beyond some speculation about the 15th Century and various historical associations the birds have suffered, for instance, death. Poets, you know, ever-observant to a cloud-filled sky that suits a mood, along with everything else to build a few stanzas around a love gone too soon. The crows surely mock the self-absorbed.

So, I have added to the cliché.

*

One pristine apple among the scabbed; a dozen plums within reach; and, two pears that might ripen and then be worth pealing. The wet spring.

*

One gopher trapped.

*

A fire in the wood stove.

*

We had a bit of sun today. Enough to take the camera outside as I thought I might muster a watchful eye. To-do took a while and clouds began to gather, so I decided to expedite a project to take advantage of the light that may not be available for some weeks again, and in that way I could use the camera during a chore. A chore of sorts in that I did manage to sweat a little and it was something I would eventually have to do even though it served no practical purpose.

None of these are edible. Rather, I have no desire to cook any, the appearance of many akin to decorative gourds rather than the winter squash from which they are hybrids. This anticipation of foulness comes more from belief than experience (although one of the parent squashes are my favorites*) and a little research shows that I may be mistaken. Still, as many, I am afraid of some things of which I have no direct knowledge. Besides, I know neighbors who adorn their porches with such this time of year and the will be glad to have them. That said, I must admit some curiosity, so stand by.

*

Fishing this Thursday. Salmon are running.



*A point of clarification: The back row of yellow squash were grown and have been stored since last year. They are one of the parent fruits. Amazing keepers, but not my favorite.

Preparation for the prolonged

The rainy season is upon us. The clouds hang low in the mountains and the mountains appear to make their own clouds as well, wafts rising from where the ground below the canopy of fir trees has yet to cool. Fog rolls in on the farm.

There is little left in the garden that can be harvested... No, that is not entirely true. More like there is much that can salvaged. Tomorrow is supposed to give us a break before the next day's rain, so there will be an effort made.

Ah, tomorrow is today. A technical point, really, not much more, yet keeping with the tone and topic. The fact of the matter is that sleep comes upon me in the same manner as the weather. I could don my rain gear while better solutions exist.

*

The prognosticator offered no apology, and seemed to ever-so-gently tell me to suck it up. I really had no other option.

There remains still more to do, yet of the tasks I managed: the remainder of the eggplant, two gallons of jalapeños (from two plants), some kale for friends, a couple cucumbers; removal of the moss accumulating around the dormers on our roof; spoke with my father-in-law and my mother; dropped off the kale; and, filled the gas tank on my rig. Those are the 'shoulds'. My clothes from today are drying on a rack. A little poker, reading and writing, and dinner is upon us, which I will prepare. But first, a little more poker. Then 500 words. More reading. Then more poker, but still under 100 hands total.

So, a little of this and that makes up for the lamentable moments of sloth (poker) from the past week, despite flopping the Steel Wheel in O8.

*

Day 3

Still raining.

Today we sit by the phone waiting for word while dad-in-law is in surgery. He and I talked yesterday. He's a firm believer in "Shit Happens" and "Hang in There." Still... It is perhaps easier for me to visualize than most, having seen a lot of what happens under the knife and what follows. I keep my own counsel except to remind him that trauma does not always require this. We have made him a t-shirt for the time he will not be able to speak, which reads: "Just because I'm quiet doesn't mean I'm listening."